A Time for Drunken Horses
by Charlotte Gray
Summary: Ok,this is sort of a sequal to the movie,Chris's plane gets shot down again and he becomes a P.O.W along with his German pilot.Some of the original charcters who died are not dead in my story.
1. Default Chapter

A/N: Probably the best resources I used for this story were books.

Basher Five-Two, by Scott O'Grady. Great book on the pilot shot down in Bosnia. Bosnia: A Short History, by Noel Malcolm. This book is good, but it is hard to follow. Malcolm uses too many prepositional phrases in a sentence, and makes it hard to understand. The absolute best book on the Navy is The Bluejackets' Manual. My version is about 13 years old, but is still is reliable. Anyway my heart goes out to those who serve overseas in Operation Iraqi Freedom.

As Chris stepped out of the shed, the early morning sun reflected his gaunt features. It was hard to believe that just three months before he was flying F-18's for the U.S. Navy.

He sat down at the base of a tree with his back against it. He pulled a wad of newspaper out of his pocket. He franticly looked around to see if any guards or other prisoners were watching; none were. He opened the wad like it was a warning from the IRS, his hands shaking nervously. He knew he would probably be tortured if the Serbs found out he was sneaking food into the camp. He pulled back the paper revealing half a withered tangelo. It wasn't much, but he had worked hard to get it. He stuffed the piece of fruit in his mouth, destroying the evidence. After he did so, he felt bad about it. Rarely did the men get a treat like a piece of fruit. He knew the vitamin C in the citrus fruit wouldn't last long in his body; it wouldn't cure his scurvy.

He stared up at the red, white, and blue striped Serbian flag flying high above the barbed wire fences of the prisoner of war camp. He recited the U.S. fighting man's code number IV in his mind, feeling he'd just gone against it in some way, _"If I become a prisoner of war, I will keep faith in my fellow prisoners. I will give no information nor take part in any action that might be harmful to my comrades."_ He knew if he was suspected he would be questioned, and there was no doubt the Serbs wouldn't make him empty his stomach so they could examine its contents. The Serbs had become bolder in asking for information. Normally they would joke around with the soldier being interrogating; try to be his friend.

He closed his eyes and pulled the tattered blanket the Serbs issued him tighter around his emaciated body. It would have been a nice gesture if the Serbs hadn't contaminated them with chemicals first. Chris's mind flashed back to three months before.

_"Kraut," Chris muttered as her stared at the man before him. _

"This is Lieutenant Fredrick Bergen. He's had training with the German Air Force. His resume was particularly interesting. Said he served during the Gulf war, and is familiar with the landscape of Bosnia. I figured you could be his navigator for another recon. over Hac," Reigrat smiled slightly, hoping Chris wouldn't voice his opinion. Chris just stared at his boots, annoyed. "Burnett you could show him the ropes, get him used to the way we do things, be great buddies?"

Chris knew Reigart's intentions were good, but he was trying to replace Stackhouse with some damn German. Chris wasn't about to let this happen. He pulled a wicked smile and said with every intention of ditching Bergen the second Reigart was out of sight…

"Sure thing, I'm sure he'll catch on fast though."

Reigart smiled left the room.

"Listen, I have no intention of becoming your friend or anything. I fly the mission because it's my job, not because I like you," snapped Chris. Bergen looked up at him. His dark green eyes showed amusement then sympathy. He opened his mouth to say something, but didn't.

"Damn it, don't you have anything to say? All you do is stand there and gape at me." Bergen cocked his head and smiled at Chris. Chris growled slightly and stormed out of the room.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Socialism is a form of Communism. According to the World Book Encyclopedia, all people of the Yugoslavian area is considered a Slav, since Bosnia and Herzegovina is right next to Yugoslavia, I think you get the picture.  
  
  
  
Chris was roughly awoken from his daydream by a Serb guard.  
  
"Lazy bastard, all your Yankee friends are already dedicating their time to help us become a great Socialist military power, and here you are sleeping," the guard hissed in broken English.  
  
Chris took the time to notice the stench of alcohol on the man's breath and his rotting teeth.  
  
"Sure thing buddy, but I bet Bergen isn't even awake yet," Chris mumbled.  
  
He stood up and staggered back into the shed, leaving the drunken guard in his place by the tree. The shed was nothing more then some barn siding nailed to a few wooden posts. The crude housing offered no real protection from the Bosnian winter.  
  
The air inside the shed was thick with smoke. Not only did the shed offer no protection from the elements; it had no way for the smoke to escape. The Serbs were dead set on making anyone who opposed to their ridding Bosnia of Slavic Muslims life miserable. The scant pieces of wood they gave the prisoners were in no way practical or dry enough to be used for firewood. The Serbs loved to see the men choke and cough on the on the hot cinders the fires gave off.  
  
Chris brushed at his watering eyes; trying to stop the stinging from the smoke. His uniform was streaked with ash from the fires he had tended to. The stench of unwashed bodies in the small camp was almost unbearable. So far no one had contracted any particularly life threatening diseases, but dysentery and scurvy had set in for the winter.  
  
He stumbled over the other men. Most were either pilots, like himself; who'd been shot down or the foot soldiers of other nations in NATO; who'd had their camp ambushed. He accidentally kicked a few, but they just groaned and rolled over. In a space meant to hold 15, 45 men were crammed together.  
  
He found a slightly empty space and lay down. He looked over at Bergen. Bergen shivered and drew his knees closer to his chest. His blanket had been used for shoes. Bergen's boots had been "confiscated" by a Serb, who Chris had dubbed Coyote, because of his sly ways and conning voice. Chris drifted off into an uneasy sleep, but was awaken all too soon by the same Serb guard. 

"You come with us!" he snapped, his eyes shining with victory. Chris nervously got to his feet, knowing full and well why he was going with the Serb. He tried hard to avoid the questioning stares of his, now wide awake comrades. 

The Serb marched him out of the shed, and much to Chris's surprise, out of the barbed wire encampment. He was shoved into a waiting military convoy and then blindfolded. He couldn't see the countryside pass by him, but he could feel it every time the unknown driver hit a rut in the road. He had a feeling the driver was doing it on purpose too. He lost track of time while in the jeep, minutes felt like hours. He dozed miserably, jerking awake every few minutes. After what seemed like eternity, the jeep came to a stop in front of a stone mansion. 


	3. Chapter 3

"How many times do I have to tell you?" shouted the guard.  
  
He hit Chris with the butt of his rifle. Chris rolled over, his hands clutching his chest. He struggled to breathe his eyes watered furiously. The guard kicked him sharply in the ribs.  
  
"Get up," he barked.  
  
Chris writhed in agony. He rocked back and forth until he was up on his knees. He opened his eyes and dared to look up at the guard.  
  
"God damn it, I don't have time for this," the guard snapped, and pulled Chris up by the shoulder.  
  
Chris stood for a few seconds before falling against the guard.  
  
"Stand up damn it!" bellowed the guard.  
  
"I'm trying," whispered Chris.  
  
As soon as he made that remark, he wished he could take it back. He fell to his knees just as the butt of a gun came at his head.  
  
*~*~*~*  
  
When he awoke he was laying in a corner of the shed. A piece of cloth was wrapped tightly around his head. He looked towards the entrance of the shed, but couldn't tell if it was day or night. His throat burned with thirst. He looked around for the bucket of water the men kept in the shed. He saw it; but it was just out of his reach. He tried to sit up, but the pain was too intense. His head spun as he lay back down. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to block out the pain. Soon he heard a familiar voice.  
  
"Thank god you've woken up. It took everything we had to convince the guards you weren't dead. They'd be just as happy to throw you to the crematory. Dirt bas." Reiker broke off and smiled at Chris.  
  
"How ya feeling?" asked a Sergeant Chris had only talked too once or twice.  
  
"How long had I been out?" Chris asked, ignoring the sergeant's question.  
  
"Oh, about five days, it's really a miracle you didn't die," answered Reiker.  
  
"By the way, here's your buddies now" the sergeant added, referring to the two approaching guards. 


End file.
